Wonambi
by DemonFox38
Summary: The myth protected him. The monster hunted him. A story so harrowing that it'll put hair on your teeth!
1. Chapter 1

**Wonambi**

* * *

><p>The southwestern skies were lit up with fire. The last orange tendrils from the sun licked the night sky, color billowing across a deep purple backdrop. Mountains glowed red on the horizon. Stars burst into life shortly after the sun disappeared, twinkling against the vast emptiness of space. The sky was so clear, the air dry and cool. It was gorgeous.<p>

At least, perhaps that is what the two men on the front porch would have thought had they not been so drunk.

The first tipped his drink back, belching after a swallow. "Whaddya think that is in the sky? Fairies?"

"DeGroot, if I've told you one time, I've told you a million times." His friend took the man's drink and sloshed one back. "There are only two native monsters in the United States, and that's ghosts and zombies. And even then, zombies are only in Louisana!"

DeGroot rolled a lazy eye towards his short-tempered American friend. "I dunno. Seems like a lot o' land for just two kinds o' monsters, Jane."

Jane shrugged his shoulders. "That's the way it is. We are the land of machines, progress, war, and victory! We don't need no stinking little girl fairy tales!"

"What aboot that story with the wee little girl and her dog and that lion?" DeGroot waved a finger at Jane, although it ended up pointed crookedly at his chest rather than his face.

"That was an illegal shoe shopping trip." Jane paused in his argument, and then conceded a point. "I suppose we did have witches in Salem, though. That's three, then."

"All right, then. Witches. Whatever." DeGroot slouched further back into his rubber banded fold-out chair. "Just want ta know what is going on up there."

Both men watched the horizon shimmer, content in their boozed state. Jane passed the bottle back to DeGroot, and the Scotsman threw back another shot. He wiped what had spilled on his lips off, then licked that. It was a particularly sweet brew, not something to be wasted. He sat the bottle down between the two of them and folded his hands, watching the summer sky dance.

DeGroot pinched his eyebrows together. His depth perception and vision were never all that great, particularly with his left eye out of commission. At the edge of his range of view, he saw a black shadow moving against the sparkling backdrop of night. He sat upright, squinting at the dark object. It wavered back and forth, progress halted by an unsteady gate. He poked Jane's left arm, pointing at the apparition.

"Whaddya think that is?" DeGroot asked.

Jane frowned, snatching a pair of binoculars from the ground. He adjusted the field of view. "I don't know." He lowered the binoculars, shaking his head.

DeGroot stole the binoculars from Jane, attempting to adjust them for his vision. He wasn't particularly successful, alternating between both lenses. "These things don't help for nothen'. Gotta get myself a spyglass or somethen'."

The weaving shadow dropped, collapsing to nearly half its height. DeGroot lowered the binoculars, watching with confusion. It halved itself again, now lying on the ground. That was odd. He stood up and walked off the front porch of the team's barracks. Jane was quick to follow. They traveled down to the abandoned, red dirt road. The shadow was just across the path, lying on its side. Its ribs went up and down in a shaky rhythm.

"Can't be a ghost, then. Never heard of a breathen' ghost." DeGroot crossed the path, now approaching the dark creature with some apprehension. Jane became bolder, locking step with the Scotsman. That didn't stop his face from blanching.

DeGroot laughed at Jane's sudden emotional shift. "Ya look whiter than ya normally do."

Jane smirked. "Are you picking on my mel-lal-lel-anin deficiency? Because I don't pick on you for being Mendel's genetic experiment!"

That would have set off a round of drunken banter, had a third noise not interrupted it. There was a low moan that came out of the ditch. It was dry, like a mummy's wail. DeGroot jumped backwards in surprise. The shadow was moving again. It pulled itself half-way up again, crawling out of the ditch and onto the edge of the road. It looked tattered and bloody, clothes torn from its chest, a chipped knife in its hands.

DeGroot shrieked, "Chrissake, it's a zombie!"

Between his bravado and his inebriation, Jane didn't hesitate. He wound his fist back. With a sharp crack, he struck the dark figure. It went sprawling on its back, spindly legs flopping against the ground. Jane smirked, proud that he still had his strong swing. He was less amused when he found a pair of shattered glasses lying next to his boots. He picked up the frames, his muddled brain trying to put them back together. He'd seen these in the sunlight, orange and glinting with the slightest movement like a star in the desert sky.

Then he dropped them, realizing his mistake. "Get the Medic."

DeGroot hesitated, his mind still floating in scrumpy. "What?"

Jane seized DeGroot by the collars of his vest. "God's sake, Tavish! Get the Medic!"

The shaking snapped DeGroot out of his slurring mindset long enough to recognize the urgency in Jane's voice. He nodded, stumbling back to the base as fast as he could. Jane stayed by the limp body, pulling a handkerchief out of his fatigues. He pressed it into where he'd socked the figure, mopping up a little blood. He shook with horror, the coldness of the night now sinking through his drunken haze and into his bones.

"Goddamnit, Mundy," Jane hissed, clutching the body closer to him. "Where have you been?"

* * *

><p>The closest thing to their base was a truck stop and greasy spoon about thirty miles northwest. The Administrator was never fond of her men leaving the base, but about once a week, one would make the trek out to pick up perishable items. Typically, it was the Engineer, the Soldier, or the Sniper's job to make this run. Even then, it was based on who had the least amount of gas in their tank at the time. The Soldier's Jeep was full, and the Engineer's truck was pretty well stocked, too. Being the gas guzzler that it was, the Sniper found himself once again heading out to get his van resupplied. It usually wasn't a bad trip, but it did mean having to make rounds to see what everybody else wanted.<p>

Even then, there was usually a pattern for requests. Milk, eggs, and bread were always at the top of the list. Nobody could stand the powdered and freeze-dried stuff that came with their typical regimen. Either the Medic or the Heavy would ask for a few bars of chocolate—both had gained a bit of an addiction to bars with caramel. If an order for motor oil or cleaning supplies couldn't be made out to Mann Co. in time, the Engineer would make that his emergency request. The Soldier and the Demoman alternated requests for alcohol. The Scout would always want to try a new flavor of soda, but he never liked anything but his energy drinks. Nobody even knew what the Pyro wanted, but he always seemed happy with a can of gasoline and a fresh box of matches.

The Spy was always a pain in the ass. "Note that when I say 'I want another carton of cigarettes', I do not say 'I want to smoke something that was rolled in a horse barn.'"

The Sniper nodded, jotting cigarettes down on the spiral notepad in his hand. "Not in 'orse barn. Okay."

Ignoring the jab, the Spy continued. "I doubt this, but if they do have some kind of wine that does not taste like Sunday communion grape juice, that would be acceptable as well." He shook his head, taking a drag off of one of his last cigarettes. "Can you believe the swill these Americans drink? I thought the Germans had garbage, but this."

The Sniper mumbled. He wrote down the Spy's request, his hand-writing somewhat less elegant than that of a standard grade schooler. "Anythin' else?"

The Spy stopped for a moment, considering his final request. He puffed a curl of smoke out into the air. Placing the cigarette back in his mouth, he swirled it around once before finally finding the right words. "You know…the one thing I do like about these Americans."

Oh. That. The Sniper bobbed his head again. "Lost your last mag, did you?"

"Keep your voice down! For crying out loud, I thought you were supposed to be good at keeping quiet." The accusation brought red shame to the Spy's face. "Look. Oui, I lost it. The Engineer happened to have a good hand in poker last week, all right?" He took another smoke, waving the cigarette around in the air and punctuating his words. "Since then, the last thing I've seen around here that even looks like breasts was that flabby Russian's—what's that word you used—"

"Moobs?" The Sniper offered.

The Spy glared. "Yes. That's it." He gritted his teeth. "That's the closest thing I've seen to a naked woman this whole week. Unless Scout's mother pays a surprise visit, I will be completely insufferable and inconsolable within a few days time. You understand the necessity of my request, do you not?"

The Sniper nodded again. "Yeah, I got it. Anythin' in particular?"

"Brunette, if you have a choice. Outside of that, just keep it tasteful," The Spy was quick to respond. He muttered to himself, "I'm talking about taste to a man who lives in a camper. This will end well." He tapped ashes onto the ground, his mind calculating. "Perhaps I should go with you."

"Think that'll piss the Administrator right the clear off. We're lucky she lets one of us go at a time." The Sniper folded his notebook shut, shoving the pen through the top metal ring.

The Spy winced. "I wish you would not use that word around me. It brings back foul memories."

The Sniper smirked and tucked the notebook into his back pocket. He turned and headed for the garage. "Wouldn't want ta piss ya off, mate. That'd be a real piece of piss."

That made the poodle bark. "Don't waste my time, bushman! You have two hours!"

The Spy would always threaten him with that time limit. It meant nothing to the Sniper. He enjoyed taking his time on the road, even if it was rough driving. Since hardly anyone came out this way, the roads were dirt, maybe gravel. It was just nice to get off the base and clear his head. The summer heat waned at night, and little bugs here and there were singing. That was what the Sniper enjoyed most about visits outside. He could just enjoy the peaceful side of the world, even if it was going by at sixty miles an hour.

He went to the front of the garage and pressed a button. The metal doors rolled back, revealing a vibrant summer sky. All of the stars were out of order, but even then, it reminded him of home. He would have been caught longer in his thoughts if it wasn't for the Engineer's steady clanking against his truck. The Texan waved at the Australian, then went straight back to work. He could get so caught up in his hobby. Probably the only reason he could stand repairing sentries in the middle of gunfire.

The Sniper unlocked his van and jumped in. The vehicle bobbed with his weight—it needed new shocks. Maybe he'd get lucky and find some at the truck stop, but he doubted it. He turned his keys in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, sputtering into the back of the garage.

The racket caught the Engineer's attention. He tapped on the Sniper's window, which the Australian in turn rolled down. "Maybe I should take a look at that before ya hit the road."

The Sniper shook his head. "It always does that. No worries, mate."

The Engineer scrunched up his nose. "All right, if you say so. But I'm looken' at it when you get back. Got it, Mundy?"

"Got it, Dell." The Sniper rubbed the back of his head. He always felt like he was being scolded when somebody used his last name.

Dell tapped twice on his door. "Okay. Be quick, now. I'd like to win that magazine off the Spy by Sunday. That boy's got the worst poker face I've seen."

That earned the Texan a short laugh and a toothy grin. Both parted ways, quick to get back to business. Before too long, the base was a blip of light on the horizon, and then disappeared beneath the rusted earth. Then it was a long, quiet stretch of nothing. Billboards and payphones broke up the miles, but outside of that, it was empty. It was strange to think that a microcosm of war was out here in the middle of nothing.

Time dragged by, and the Sniper eased into the quiet. Not that he could break it, really. The radio in this camper never could pick anything up. He'd always wondered why that was. Dell had taken a look at it, and he was sure that it was still working properly. Maybe there was nobody broadcasting out here, or maybe the Administrator had bought rights to the air waves around here. Neither solution would have surprised him. He sighed, but then decided to fiddle with the nob. Why not? Nothing else to do.

He was halfway through the FM range when it happened.

It felt like the world trembled for just a moment. Just a small, tiny shake. It was enough to bump the van over a foot. The Sniper slowed down, dropping his speed to a snail's pace. There was another jump, more forcefully than before. It shook the van, knocking his head into the steering wheel. He hissed, grabbing his hat and glancing around. There was nothing outsi—

**WHAM!**

Something struck his van. It sounded like a freight train had met the middle. Metal screeched and snapped, the van immediately rolling once, twice, off the highway, another time. It landed on the left side, throwing the Sniper into the side of the door. His seatbelt kept him from being bucked clear of the wreckage, but it suspended him on his side. He had just enough time to catch his breath when **WHAM!**

Now he was being pushed along. Glass shattered as rocks and cacti bounced off the sides of his van. He covered his face, trying in desperation not to breathe in sand and glass shards. **WHAM!** The van was forced over a thick plant, spun thirty degrees around from its initial position. **WHAM! **This strike bucked him from beneath, sending a wave of terror up through his throat. He howled, voice reaching nothing. Where was this going?

**WHAM!**

Oh, God. He knew this feeling, an unsettling nervousness that rushed through his limbs. Freefall. It was ended seconds later, the van crashing onto its top. There was an unholy squeal of metal shattering against rock. The force from the impact threw him forward against his steering wheel again, his skull cracking against the metal column. He went limp, his seat belt hanging him in awkward stasis.

For several hours, that was it.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note:<span>

This'll be either a three or four parter.

I'm not sure what brought this on. Cowboys and Aliens? An episode of The Simpsons that I had forgotten? A negative perspective on American mythos? A bad dream? Something like that.

Jeebus fishsticks, I've only gotten into this within the past month. I've got to get accents and foreign languages down pat. At any rate, feel free to write me a message, if you do ever want to play with me. Just to warn you—I tend to get overly aggressive when I should not be. I may end up sawing through your bones.

Pretty sure poodles are actually German.


	2. Chapter 2

The light burned like a bright blue sun. He could see its radiance through his eyelids, still fastened shut. It intensified the migraine surging in the back of his skull. Now feeling was coming back to him, the hunter long since pacified and put away. Numbness and fortitude folded into pain and confusion. His torso and back ached. A steady nausea was building in his stomach in reaction to the pungent stench of cleaning fluids in this room and the low caloric intake he'd had over the past few days. Time. There was a concept he'd forgotten. Language. That was coming back now, too, even if the babblers around him were speaking in very broken English.

"—has gum tizzue left on zat one. Goodness."

"Leetle man has strange hobbies. What did dat—"

"How should I know zis, Heavy? I am not a vet—"

The Sniper took a deep breath, trying to force his brain to focus. The words floating around him became clearer. His eyes opened, and he squeezed them shut again. That blinding light was familiar. He'd spent one too many times staring up at it, a cackling German having fun reassembling his guts like a jigsaw puzzle. The good doctor was enthusiastic tonight, working carefully on cleaning an injury to his right arm. Even with the gleeful, ominous grin on his face, it was good to see the Medic again.

The Medic was pleased with the Sniper's awakening. "Vell, vell. Guten abend, Schneewittchen."

"Hi, Doc." The words cracked his throat.

A shadow loomed over the Sniper's left shoulder. A meaty hand clapped down on it, and he flinched under the blow. The shudder earned him a deep, rolling laugh. "Comrade! You scared the crap out of us."

The Sniper propped himself onto his elbows. "Likewise."

"Now, now. Settle down." The Medic pushed the Sniper back down, careful to avoid a tender spot on his right side. "We've got a lot of vork to do, especially since I'm not running a horse hospital. You're oozing like a Krapfen."

"You lost all your blood. It was no good." The Russian flexed an arm, pointing to a bandage. "You are lucky. I am universal donor!"

The Sniper shook his head. He nodded his head towards a metallic fixture next to the light, one that was gently beaming energy downwards. "But the Medi Gun—"

"Heals wounds. Does not clean them. " The Medic grabbed the Sniper's jaw, directing his attention to his side wound.

The Medic had cut away a chunk of his shirt, exposing a nasty injury. It was swollen, purple at the deepest part. Several pinpricks deepened into tears inches long. The Australian jolted. He should be dead. He knew that. He'd walked away from that fight uncertain that he'd ever make it back to the base. Maybe he was closer than he thought. He trembled at the sight, fingers shaking around the injury. A white-hot burst of adrenaline shot through him.

"Don't fret. Zat is not why I wanted to show you zat." The Medic forced his attention upward. His face was cold and stern. "I have many questions. So do ze others. Now you know why I say zat you scared us, ya?"

The Sniper nodded. "I—I'm sorry."

"Is not time for apologies." The Heavy patted the Australian on his shoulder and smiled, the grin big enough to shove the tension out of the ward. "Is food time. Need to make more blood for next puny man."

The Medic frowned, shooting the Heavy a dirty look. "It's not good for your figure to eat so late, you know."

That earned the German a roar of laughter. "Is celebration! I make us all sandvich. Everybody needs it."

The Russian crept out, closing the Medic's ward with a gentleness that was uncanny for someone his size. Sighing, the Sniper relaxed back onto the cot. It wasn't comfortable, and the Medic's constant application of peroxide and scraping was irritating. Still, he didn't want to move. It all seemed like a nightmare, something floating on the edges of his consciousness all rolled into one black ball. He didn't know how he was going to sleep tonight.

"How bad was I, Doc?" The Sniper asked.

The Medic smirked, readjusting the Medi Gun to a new injury. "Was? Try is. I am fairly zertain zat you still have a concussion. A few broken ribs. Some blood loss. Dehydration. Residual effects from consumption of Peyote. Zings like zat." He laughed, his glasses sliding down his broad nose. "Good news, zo. You lost some weight. Next time you do zis, I send ze Heavy out with you!"

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "Pay-ode?"

"It's a small cactus. Causes hallucinations. Great for ice breaking. Must have had a bad lunch out there, hmm?" He tapped the Australian on the stomach. "I need you to roll your shirt up."

He complied, scrunching what was left of his shirt and singlet up to his ribcage. It was sticky with blood, and pulling it away caused a small squelch. Less pronounced marks traced the left side of his ribs. It almost seemed inconsequential compared to the bite on his right side. The Medic's face flushed in sadistic excitement. "My, my. Was im Himmel?"

"Doc, please," The Sniper couldn't stand the chilling thrill in the Medic's voice.

The German wasn't listening. He traced the injuries from left to right, his jaw working as his mind calculated the strength needed to make these marks. He flexed his fingers inward, watching how the injuries pulled with the motion. The Sniper winced. That wasn't enough for the German. He paced around the Sniper, discovering a trail of puncture marks winding up the curve of his spine and connecting his left and right wounds. The Medic's hands flew to his face, cackling at what he'd discovered. Whatever made this had either a huge jaw or an incredible reach, like something out of a fairy tale or a poorly created Daikaiju film.

"You poor bastard!" The Medic sprung to work, fingers flying across the hoisted Medi Gun and his supplies. His lips went faster than his mind. "Ven the Demoman told me you were back, I couldn't believe him! I vas sure you ver dead, even before that crazed American hit you! It had been so long, you know, and when they brought your van back, I vas zertain. Zertain! But now I see that you ver merely preoccupied!"

The Sniper lifted his left hand, trying to slow the Medic down. "You found my van?"

The Medic tipped his head to the side, his smile twisting into something less than innocent. "I did not. Ze Engineer did, about two days after you had left. He said zat ze road was all tore up like a dragon ate it. I said zat dragons aren't real, and zat he was being daft. But now, here we are, and zer on your ribcage is ze bite of a monster!"

"Tu—two days?" The Sniper was flabbergasted.

"Yes, before he found your auto. It has been…" The Medic paused in his diligence, ticking days off on his fingers. "Five days total since you vent missing, ya."

The news struck him across the chest. Five days in the heat and the sand. He couldn't even remember most of it. There were clear memories—nightmares that he couldn't drown with even the strongest of the Demoman's scrumpy—but most of it was lost to chaos and rage. He laid back, the Medic's poking and prodding now numb against his skin. He was prone to losing track of time. Most days flew by, particularly from the comfort of his sniping nests. To lose almost a whole week in the blink of an eye, to have his teammates think he was dead…This left him unnerved.

The Sniper's voice caught in his throat. "I need to see my van."

"In due time," The Medic's tone went soft. He outlined an injury with his index finger, planning his next move with practiced diligence. "You give me enough time to fix your hide, and zen you eat vhateva ze Heavy brings back for you. You owe both of us zat much, for all ze heart attacks we had. Zen we can go see your home."

The kindness in his words made the Sniper shake.

* * *

><p>Perhaps it had been a hasty decision to leave his van. For a man who could sit for hours on end for a target to appear, he had little patience for waiting around for help. Little problems had gnawed away his last nerve. Coming to upside down was not pleasant. Neither was the wriggling he had to do to get himself out of the front of the vehicle. With the driver's side firmly embedded in the sand, he had to pull himself through the shattered windshield. Maybe what put him over the top was that most of his bobble head figurines were destroyed in the crash.<p>

The van had been bisected by the attack and the fall. The mini-fridge had come undone from the wall and landed smack-dab in the middle of the sink. His bow was snapped like a twig. Bullets and arrows spilled out into the red dirt. Jars and dishes were in pieces. Clothing and bedding made a messy heap. He sat down next to the wreck, trying in vain to find anything salvageable. That was when it caught his eye.

In the sand, lying next to the broken bow and a few rounds, there was a small charm. It had been connected to a keychain once, but the metal link had broken between the ring and the charm. So, he'd kept the trinket as a bookmark. Seemed like a shame to throw away, even if was something that his mum had picked up at a tourist trap. It was an arched snake, its flat head starting at a bright purple and its tail flaring into a hot red. The Aboriginal tribes had called it Wonambi, the rainbow serpent that was supposed to protect good people and punish the wicked.

Either it was doing a crappy job, or he had a lot of karma catching up with him.

He studied the charm as the sun came up behind the cliff. Orange light spilled over his head, glinting off the pewter. He rolled the snake back and forth in his hands, studying the streaming patterns of light. He spun it around once, for no good reason other than to occupy his boredom. It landed snout-first pointing towards the dark western skies.

Then he saw it. He stood up, noticing how wide it was. It was probably as big around as he was tall. There was a subtle bulge in the ground, leading from the center of the crash out into the horizon. It was like something out of those cartoons with the sassy rabbit. Oh, it taunted him. That was the path of his villain.

Reason lost out to rage. The Sniper dove into the carcass of his wrecked home, grabbing anything that wasn't in tatters. A couple of boxes of ammunition. Two rifles—his standard and a jezail. A bushwacka. A billy can. A few tea packets. Two water bottles and a canteen. A can of peaches. A small first aid kit. A worn blanket. A compass. A lighter. Finally, a well-tanned tucker bag. He wrapped as much as he could in the blanket, and then slid that into the bag. It was light on his shoulders. That was more than he needed.

The first day passed quickly. His quarry moved with a weaving pattern. It never swerved around rocks or plants, simply plowing underneath them. It killed one batch of cacti, the plants burst out like a grenade had hit them smack in the center. It moved progressively northwest—further away from base camp—and seemed to descend rock walls with the same fury as it plowed through dirt. What was this? A mole?

By his estimate, he'd traveled nearly thirty miles out into the desert by the time the sun fell. The temperature dropped fast, so he was quick to build a fire and bury himself in the nearest crack in the ravine wall. The day's exertion was quick to put him asleep, and he stayed under for quite a while. The sun didn't wake him the next day. His stomach's growls got him up first. Having three square meals a day back at the barracks had spoiled him. He used to go at least three days without hunger getting to him. The can of peaches was tempting, but he decided to save it (and more importantly, its precious syrup) for later.

Day two was more eventful. He happened to be lucky enough to find and kill a roadrunner sometime around noon. It was cumbersome work plucking the bird, but between hot stones, dead plants, and a subdued fire, it made for a good meal. He took some of the bandages from the first aid kit and wrapped the remainder of the consumable bits up for later.

Towards the late afternoon, he came across an unusually populated cactus patch. His prey had torn through the center of that, once more uprooting anything it came in contact with. The Sniper investigated one of the overturned plants, poking at its fleshy center. It had quite a bit of wetness left to it. He'd heard the Americans bickering about whether or not it was a great idea to drink from a cactus. Maybe it was a bad time to experiment, but he figured he might as well try it.

Once was enough. Its bitterness almost gagged him.

The Sniper spent his second night in a cave. He boiled one of his tea bags, drinking one half of it and using the other half to sooth the skin on his face and arms. He wasn't completely burned yet, but he was red enough. The flickering fire kept drawing his attention to the walls. Somebody had painted arches all over the places in at least five different colors. It reminded him of his broken keychain, then of his mother. He didn't know if she or his father would have the bigger fit if they knew he was sleeping out here tonight.

On the third day, he almost died.

It was a series of poor decisions on his part. He'd been lucky enough to find a little flowing water, so he was quick to boil up as much as he could and store it in his bottles, canteen, and billy can. Next to that was what he thought at the time was a bell pepper with eyes like a potato. It tasted pretty awful, but he at least had enough water to down it. After the desert started melting and lizards began speaking to him in French, he realized he'd gotten into something very, very bad. He found a cool spot where he could lie down for a while, but the swirling hallucinations continued well into the night.

That was when he met his quarry—or, rather, when it came back to meet him. He thought it was just another side effect of what he'd eaten. It had come out of the ground with a timidness that went against its size. The tip of its nose had pushed through first. It was puckered together, four lines splitting it into equal pieces. It was fastened to a wide, eyeless head adorned in bumpy red splotches. Its body was thick and slug-like, skin mottled with warm-colored spots over tan flesh. It was round and reticulated like an oversized caterpillar.

The whole thing was rather ridiculous looking. Maybe that was why he'd started laughing when he saw it. Yes, it was huge, but it was buffoonish. Less of a monster, more of a parade float.

Then it opened its maw. The four parts peeled back to reveal sticky, barbed covered tips. Something sticky like saliva oozed down these tendrils, hanging off the center of its mouth. Inside, there was a ring of teeth like a sucker fish, sharp and comparatively short in the way that each one was about the size of the Sniper's thumb tips. He could see down into its throat, a long and dark plunge into an unknown, acidic abyss.

It barreled down at him, very willing to give the Sniper an inside tour of its digestive tract.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note:<span>

I could have gone on, but I'm pushing three thousand words here. You could use a break. More dialogue, right?

Found out—awkwardly so—that I enjoy writing the Medic. Must be my heritage kicking in. He's just so gleeful about squishy things. He really, really should be some kind of villain. He probably is. I may be blind.

That's…about it. For now. (Is it really a cliff hanger when you know he survives?)


	3. Chapter 3

The Medic's work was done. The Sniper's wounds were cleaned, his stomach full. He'd been given time to wash himself, leaving a dune and a river of blood in the shower. Someone left him clean clothes in the locker room. For having been in the deserted plains for several days, he looked almost normal, outside of the red glow of his skin. He was beginning to peel from the sunburn. All things considered, he was doing much better.

That didn't stop the Medic from nagging him.

"We vill see your van. Then you vill come back to my office." He was locked in step with the Sniper, writing with sharp strokes on his clipboard. "I vill need to run more tests on you. I don't vant you spreading some veird desert disease around zis place."

"Okay, Doc," The Sniper nodded. Fighting with the doctor wore him out. He yawned, drowsiness fogging his mind.

The Medic tapped him on the chin, closing his mouth. "Now, now. None of zat. We've still got vork to do."

"Did you test him for rabies? I'd run that first. Probably needs, like, a dozen shots."

Both the Medic and the Sniper whipped their heads to the right. The Scout had joined their procession. He was rather nonchalant about his intrusion, flipping an apple with his left hand. He gave both of them a look, trying to assess the situation. "Where's fatty, Doc? He'd probably be jealous if he saw this."

"Ze Heavy had to go tend to Sascha. He has a very tight cleaning schedule." The Medic narrowed his eyes. "Unless you have business with either of use, I vould recommend going back to your room. It's past your bedtime, isn't it, little boy?"

The Scout rolled his eyes. "Whatever, ya stormtrooper." He turned his attention to the Sniper, giving him a quick once over. "So, where'd ya go? What happened?"

"Car accident." The Sniper wasn't feeling up to talking with the Scout. It was like trying to converse with a hyperactive Chihuahua.

"No shit. I saw that." He took a bite out of his snack, not letting that interrupt the conversation. "Did you stage it? Run off with a lot lizard? Get in a fight with a train or something? Freak tornado? Cause, I mean, damn. Your van? There ain't no putting Humpty Dumpty back together there."

The Sniper didn't know what to say. The truth was insane. He lowered his hat, grumbling under his breath. The Medic was equally irritated. He snapped at the juvenile. "Is zat all?"

The Scout took that less as a threat and more as an invitation to think. He burrowed his eyebrows, rolling the apple around in his hand. "Did you have to drink your own piss? Because I would have paid money to see—GACK!"

An invisible arm reached out and grabbed the Scout by the scruff of his t-shirt. The Spy decloaked, his face fixed in a frown. He gave the Sniper a subtle glance, pursing his lips into half a smirk. That was as much of a welcome as he was going to get. The Spy turned his attention back to the Scout, dragging him down another hallway. "Come with me, boy. I've got some slides I want to show you of ze trip I took to ze Grand Canyon with your mother."

The Scout's curses could be heard for almost a minute after the Spy had taken him away. There could be no worse torture for the Scout. Not only would he have to sit still and keep quiet, but he had to witness his mother being romantic with an insidious, back-stabbing Frenchman who routinely humiliated him. It was probably something to pity the Scout for, if the whole event wasn't a ruse to take heat off the Sniper for a few hours. The Medic nudged him along, impatient to get back to his lab and continue running experiments.

They came to the door to the garage. The Sniper took a breath and pushed the door open. The sight of the van knocked it back out of him. It was upright, both broken halves propped up by jacks and cement blocks. The right side was stripped of paneling, revealing broken metal beams. The interior was barren, appliances sitting in crumpled heaps outside. His belongings sat in heaps next to the stairwell where he and the Medic stood. His clothes and sheets had been folded and washed, bullets, knives and guns lying next to them in solemn repose. His bow had been taped back together with black electrical tape. There was a stack of books and a leather photo album next to that. The entirety of his remaining possessions was reduced to what a fold-out card table could hold.

"Good hunten', Stretch."

The Sniper jumped. He hadn't seen the Engineer sitting in the corner of the garage. He was taking a break, his guitar in arm's reach and a bottle of beer popped open. Despite seeing his life reduced to rubble, he found himself smiling at the warm Texan. "I—wot?"

The Engineer tipped his hardhat. "Got a new gem for the crown, I see."

The Sniper took his hat off. Oh, yes. That. There was a new tooth on the rim of his slouch hat. It didn't match any other tooth strapped onto the belt around it. The rest were clearly crocodile teeth, thin daggers sticking out of uniform loops. The new one was fat, shaped like the head of an arrow. Pink gum tissue was still at the root of it. His latest kill. He could remember the battle now, fast and furious, those teeth centimeters from closing around his torso.

The thought made him light-headed. The Medic stopped him, digging his gloved fingers into the Australian's shoulder. He took the hat from the Sniper, placing it back on his head. "Goodness. You've killed it. Don't be such a baby."

"Sorry, Doc. Didn't realize that it was a sensitive subject." The Engineer grabbed the necks of two more beers, offering it up to his visitors. "Wanna join me?"

Neither refused. Beer was like milk to the German, and the Australian was more than happy to blot out tonight's events with alcohol. The Medic laughed as his patient popped the metal lid off the top of the beer with his rough thumbs. "This vill have to be your pain medication, yah? Don't vant to kill your liver."

The Engineer folded out two chairs for his guests. The trio sat for several minutes, the Texan lazily strumming his acoustic guitar and the other two drinking. The Sniper drifted to sleep, the alcohol coaxing him into the darkness. The Medic let him rest, staring at bits and pieces around the garage. It was all very dull to him, not unlike what the Engineer thought of the Medic's lab. Yet, both had a mutual respect for the work the other did. It was not dissimilar—one repaired metal machines, and the other organic.

The Texan whispered. "Awfully kind of you to fix him up, Doc. Thought you'd want the respawn machine to do your work."

"Ze day I rely on zat thing is ze day zat it vill fail on me. Can't risk it." The German took another drink. "Besides. I vill get lazy if I don't do zez life or death zings every vonce in a vhile."

"He was that bad?" The Engineer sat up, trying to peek under the brim of the Sniper's hat. His expression lost its intensity in his sleep. Little homicidal drunken gentleman.

"Vell, maybe I exaggerate. Maybe I don't. Vat vhich kills one man only irritates anoza." The Medic raised his arms, cracking his shoulder blades.

The Engineer sat back, nursing his drink. "Doc, I died seventeen times today. We lost at least nine times. Gotta say, death and loss really mean nothing to me anymore." He looked up towards the scooped out corpse of the Sniper's van. "When I found that thing, I was scared shitless. I thought we'd actually lost something for once."

The Medic didn't know what to say about that. It almost sounded like the Engineer was giving him a confession. This bedside manner that everyone thought he had was as foreign to him as this watery, weak American beer. He'd really have to start buying exports through his orders to Mann co. He took another drink and tried to figure out what to say next. The Engineer really needed the word of a preacher, not that of a sociopathic surgeon.

The closest he could come up with was "Stop being such a fraulein."

That earned him a chuckle. Well, there. Job done. "Thanks, Doc."

The German rolled his eyes. Oh, what the hell. "Listen, Schlampe. I need a break. How long are you going to be out here?"

"Depends. What do you need?" The Engineer sat up again, placing his guitar on the floor.

"I'm going to go take care of a few zings. Clean up. Shave. Get some sleep." He wagged the neck of his bottle at the Engineer. "I can trust zat if I leave zis with you zat you can keep him from making more vork for me, right?"

The Engineer raised the bottom of his beer in return. "I think I can manage. Go git your rest, Doc."

"Danke." The German stood up, taking his beer with him. He ascended the stairs back into the barracks, giving one last nod to the Texan. "Guten nacht, Schweinhund."

"Good night, Sawbones."

* * *

><p>The Sniper knew he had made a mistake.<p>

He ran as fast as his legs could take him, his quarry missing him by centimeters. He could feel a tendril on his heels, snapping around his ankle. He fell face first into the dirt. The monster drew him closer to its maw, barbs shooting through his boot and into his skin. He had just enough sense to pull his rifle, peppering the tendril with a few unscoped shots. It reeled back from the pain, lifting and smashing the Sniper a few feet over. The impact sent shocks of pain radiating through his muddled head, lightning dancing at the outskirts of his vision.

He dropped his rifle and reached for his knife. Grabbing the tendril around his ankle, he gave it two quick chops. The first one was enough to cut through most of the rubbery flesh. The second freed him, causing the damaged tendril to withdraw with rapid haste. It was his turn to do the same. He threw his rifle back over his shoulder and bolted.

His ankle radiated pain with each step. Fighting through it, he continued running, his breath ragged. The monster was faster. It was upon him again, an uninjured tendril slamming into the ground next to him. Dust flew into the air, cloaking him in a rust cloud. The monster shot past him in confusion. He took the moment to find his escape route. He had to get height on this thing.

The Sniper threw himself onto a nearby crumbling ridge. His fingers dug into loose rubble, throwing himself up the cliff as fast as he could go. He'd gotten halfway up the side when the monster realized the Australian had given it the slip. It curled back, winding around to just below the human. It buried itself into the wall, the impact nearly shaking the Sniper loose. He held tight, his eyes clenched shut.

"Just another climb. Get up," the Sniper mumbled.

He pulled himself onto the top of the cliff. He was on his knees when the monster burst out of the earth, scattering debris in all directions. The Sniper rolled forward as the monster landed, barely escaping being crushed. His ran low to the ground, hands grabbing rocks and pitching himself further ahead. The monster misjudged his route, diving into the ground and popping up a little to his left. He took the opportunity to seize an attack.

Like the Spy that had pierced his back one too many times, the Sniper pulled his bushwacka and drove it down into the monster's flesh. It shrieked with pain. He withdrew the blade and stabbed again, black blood bubbling up from the wound. The monster rolled up, pulling the Sniper off the ground. He planted his feet into the beast, quick to make one more slice. Its blood flowed like gasoline around him, the light in the sky reflecting colors like rainbow splashes.

The monster pitched itself backwards, flinging the Australian from its back. He landed with an awful thump. He yelped, two ribs snapping under the impact. This got the worm's attention. It reared up, diving at the escaping human with a new speed. It missed the Sniper again, but the hit was so strong that it sent him stumbling. He glanced upwards, trying to find his new route.

There it was, just a few meters away. Adobe walls stood jutting out against another ragged wall, homes built in stacked session on top of each other. A settlement? Out here? It was worth a shot. Maybe somebody had something to fight this beast. He was dead if he didn't get care, anyway. He bolted towards the structures, thankful that there was no blood in his breath. Weaving through more obstacles, he managed to keep the worm off his tail. It dove into the ground in frustration, trying to get a more straight-line path towards the human. He could feel it rumbling beneath him, trying to breach the surface beneath his feet.

The Sniper made it to the settlement. It was abandoned. "Sonnova bitch!"

He ran up crumbling stairs moments before the worm reared its ugly head. It hesitated below him, not sure what the human was doing. The Sniper took this time to pull his rifle again, taking measured shots around the carvings in the monster's side. Flesh spurted under the bullet rain. He smiled, finally getting the opportunity to do what he did best.

He backed into a dark, empty home, laying low and continuing his assault. The wounds split further down the monster's side, like pavement cracking from the heat. It kept reeling back onto itself, trying to figure out where the Sniper was hiding. It looked like a moment that it was going to retreat, backing slowly away from the Sniper's nest. The Australian kept firing, not ready to let the home wrecker get off so easily.

Then he regretted not running again.

The monster dived head-first into the settlements. The adobe was not nearly as strong as it looked. The Sniper rolled back just in time to avoid the door collapsing on his head. It struck the buildings once more, and the floor gave way beneath him. He landed in the next home down with an awkward thwack, cracking his skull against the stone structure. The settlement gave way like a card house, levels crumbling several stories down. It buried him beneath the rubble, trapping him in a dark recess.

He lay comatose for days, unable to escape the grasp of death coiled around him.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note<span>:

You know what works surprisingly well with writing this story? Listening to the soundtrack to Shadow of the Colossus. Ya know how it goes. Write a story about a dude plunking around in the desert and killing large things to music written for a game where a dude plunks around in a desert and kills large things. (Seriously—back this story up to the beginning, and start listening to "The Farthest Land." Works well, doesn't it?)

This story has got me re-evaluating how I write men. It's a tricky business, you know. Go too harsh, and it sounds like some broad parody. Go too soft, and it sounds like a teenage girl. I think I've gotten it down to very, very androgynous. Also, weird thing—for a story about the Sniper, he sure doesn't talk a lot. I don't intend it to be that way, but…well. I suppose a proper Sniper wouldn't have much to say. Gets in the way of the job.

Anyway. Last part up next. I hope you've been enjoying. Please feel free to stroke my ego with reviews.

On a side note, I received the Bazaar Bargain in a random drop this week. I named it "Henry Higgins" and put in the description "The rain in the plain falls mainly from your brain." He teaches you to snipe like a proper young lady.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunlight trickled through the bottom of the garage, a river of orange and yellow light swathing the ground. It pooled around vehicles, the corpse of a van, chair legs, booted feet, resting in warm tones at the cement wall to the back. She watched the sleeping duo with curiosity and a tinge of frustration. Not that it bothered her, personally. It was surprising that anybody could be kind or soft-hearted in this never-ending cycle of heat and bullets. That it kept happening was something unexpected. First, the good doctor and the large Russian had become friends through the pain of their work, one hanging on the other's coat tails at all hours. Then the crazed American and the dark Scotsman had bonded—first across faction, then within after the Adminstrator saw it fit to terminate that. Now, the Australian Luddite and the Texan mastermind were fast asleep in lawn chairs, beer bottles strewn on the ground. This would just mean more complaints and rants from the Administrator.

If it was the weekend, she might have disregarded her superior's orders and just let them be. There was work to be done, though. That had to come first.

The short, dark haired woman cleared her throat. "Gentlemen?"

The Sniper stirred first. He lifted the brim of his hat, his eyes squinting. "Miss Pauling." The Engineer came to life shortly afterwards, pulling his goggles back and rubbing dust out of his eyes. He was startled to see the young woman this early and in the garage. Usually, she was at the elbow of the Administrator, not socializing with the chumps. It was like seeing a princess in a bazaar.

"How can we help ya, m'am?" The Engineer asked.

Miss Pauling turned first to the shorter of the two. "You have five minutes to get ready to head out to Dustbowl."

The Engineer jumped to his feet, grabbing his tool kit and a shotgun. He was halfway up the stairs before he turned back to Miss Pauling and the Sniper. "Comen', Mundy?"

Miss Pauling held out a hand, keeping the Sniper seated. "Go ahead, Mister Conagher. He has to come with me."

The Sniper and the Engineer stiffened. The latter was quick to go, pulling his hardhat down and stepping into the base. The Australian pulled a face. Meeting with the Administrator was never pleasant. Best case scenario, she'd belittle her visitors with sharp, underhanded insults. The worst meeting he'd had with the Administrator resulted in a pay reduction and a missing wisdom tooth. God knows what she'd do with him, especially since he'd been gone during war days.

The Sniper stood up, his spine cracking from sleeping in an awkward position. "Suppose we can't swing by the doc's office so he can write me a note out of this?"

"I'm afraid not, Mister Mundy." She patted him on the left hand. "Come on. The sooner you speak with her, the sooner it'll be over."

He grumbled, feeling childish. Miss Pauling had to laugh. Even thought he had at least half a foot of height and a few dozen pounds over her, he was as intimidating to her as a crocodile is to an Egyptian Plover. She never had a personal reason to fear any of them. Sure, they were homicidal maniacs. They were cordial enough outside of their skirmishes. Frankly, the worst complaint she had about them was their tendency to drift into meaningless flirting when she was around. Even then, it was only really a few of them that even did that.

The Administrator dwelled in an office towards the center of the complex on the second floor. It had no windows, and to be honest, the Sniper wasn't sure that it had any light fixtures. It was dark and cold save for the cyan glow of a wall of monitors. Two half-moon desks faced each other, one tucked against the monitors and the other facing the door. Computers lined the walls, tapes whirring away as they recorded footage. The Administrator spent most of her days here, chain-smoking and berating them. Today was no different.

She didn't turn around to acknowledge them. A waft of smoke circled the duo. "Don't lurk in the doorway. You were raised better than that. At least, you were, Miss Pauling."

The assistant nudged the Sniper inside, quick to close the door behind them. She brushed back a strand of loose black hair and regained her composure. Even if she was the Administrator's confidant, that woman still scared the bejeezus out of her. "I brought Mister Mundy."

The Administrator slowly spun around to meet them. She took another drag off of her cigarette—the third one this morning—and released her breath. It wavered towards them before dissipating, almost like a wagging finger. She had a dark red smile, teeth bared at the corners. The Sniper's heart took a hard beat, trying to burst out of his ribcage and through the door. He could take her shrieking at him day in and out. That grin was enough to intimidate him.

"Well, hello. Decided to finally show up for your occupation?" She lowered her eyelids, glancing at him through slits.

He didn't know what to say. He found himself stammering. "I—well, wot I mean ta say is that I—"

"Come here." The command was deep, almost guttural. He steeled his nerves. Leading with his left foot, he marched up to her desk. Miss Pauling was quick to follow, keeping a few tiny paces behind him. She feared what was going to happen next.

White fangs appeared over scarlet lips. She drew a sharp fingernail to the Sniper's right side. "Let me see it."

The Sniper balked. He gritted his teeth, then slid his vest to the floor. Miss Pauling looked away, embarrassed enough for the both of them. After hesitating for a second, he lifted his shirt just enough to show the beginnings of his wounds. The Administrator snatched its hem, eyes burrowing into his skin. She traced along red welts and gouges with the slightest drag of her fingernails. An intense purr escaped her throat, like if she was jealous of what made those injuries.

Miss Pauling blushed. She snapped the Administrator out of her trance. "Was there something we were supposed to discuss?"

The Administrator's face twitched. "Yes. Of course." She released the Sniper, still contemplating the spot he'd allowed her to see. "You were gone for quite some time, Mister Mundy."

"I know," The Sniper kept his voice barely above a whisper. He picked his vest up off the floor. "I'm assumen' that you'll be wanting some kind of reparations for my actions."

The Administrator took a fresh drag, exhaling tendrils of smoke around the Australian. "I believe removing the pay for the days you were gone should be enough. I could put you on suspension, but…" She glanced up at the monitors. "Would you look at that? Your team is losing again. I'm assuming you can stand on your feet and do your job."

The Sniper nodded. "Think I can manage."

"Besides. If you screw up, that little respawn system can patch you up like new." She tapped her cigarette out onto the ashtray on her desk. "Although, I will miss looking at those lovely new scars of yours."

The Australian rubbed his left cheek. Any time somebody mentioned his scars, he always drew his hand back to the horizontal slash across his cheek. That was a permanent mark of failure from one bad day. It humbled him. "Think I've got enough, myself."

"You may go, then. Don't make me remove anything more from your stipend." She crossed one stocking-clad leg over her opposite knee, sinking back into her chair. He didn't need a second invitation to leave. Her eyes bore holes into his backside, watching with glowering amusement as he left. "It would have been a disappointment to have had to replace you, Mister Mundy. I do enjoy monitoring your…craft."

He didn't know how to interpret that last comment. Frankly, he didn't want to know. "'Til next time then, Helen."

The Administrator and her assistant waited until the Sniper had left the office, making sure he'd gone well out of earshot. Miss Pauling kneaded her shirt, afraid of the next topic that the Administrator would bring up. She was savoring her assistant's nervousness. She held that tension like a fermata, drawing a few more puffs of smoke before addressing their next problem.

She finally gave her assistant peace. "So, that was—"

"Sample Gamma. Without a doubt." Miss Pauling pushed her glasses further up the ridge of her nose. "I'm so sorry. I know that was your favorite one."

If there was one thing Miss Pauling hadn't expected, it was how calm the Administrator was about this news. "Oh, well. I suppose growing your own kennel of Mongolian death worms isn't going to be done without some loss here and there."

Miss Pauling retrieved a clipboard and started taking notes. "What should we do with the other five, then?"

The Administrator shrugged. "Might as well release them into the wild and see what they do next. Gamma's failure was a fluke. It would be more productive to our causes to make sure Mister Mundy doesn't get loose again."

* * *

><p>Life came back into his body slowly. He wasn't sure when he'd awakened. His arteries felt like hot rivers under his skin. The world trembled, hazy images overlapping and blurring into one rough picture. Rocks and dust clung to his body. His ribs ached. Pushing upward with his back, he found himself sticking to the floor. Blood and sweat pooled beneath him. It was with a great effort that he finally sat upright.<p>

Something cold slid down under his shirt. He fished the object out. It was that damn snake charm. It must have landed on top of him when he fell. No, when that monster had brought the place down on him. He laughed to himself, placing the charm back in his pocket. The protector of good. The one who smote evil. He couldn't tell what Wonambi would have done with him. But, at any rate, he was alive.

His legs were hesitant to move. He drew them underneath him with a little bit of work, muscles tingling like they had fallen asleep. No paralysis. Good. With a push off the ground, the Sniper stood up. His knees buckled, but then they locked in place. With careful steps, he wobbled over to the edge of the collapsed building. A bright crack of sunlight greeted him. It must have been around noon.

The Sniper gathered his belongings. Most of his possessions survived the fall. The roadrunner meat had gone bad, though. He threw that aside. One of his water bottles had cracked, but the other was mostly full. His compass and canteen were okay. He still had his lighter. The rifle he used to fend off that monster was broken, the barrel dented and the sight shattered. He still had his jezail and his bushwacka. Okay. Everything else seemed to be fine.

He could probably make it back to the base safely.

The base? He cursed himself for the thought. Screw the base. He had to go murder that beast. Rage coursed through him. That was twice now that it had tried to kill him. He wouldn't let anybody get away with that, no matter how great the difference in size. He ripped the first aid kit in his tucker bag apart, winding bandages around his sore ankle and ribs. That would have to do until the Medic could see him.

The Sniper crawled his way up the rubble, careful with his footing. He made his way up to a chunk of flooring that hadn't collapsed. He dug through the crack in the rubble with his left hand, gently pawing away debris. The sun was white and warm. It soaked through his skin. With a careful squirm, he slid his body through the opened crack. He dropped a few centimeters below his exit. Freedom.

His lungs seized. There was a trail of black blood below him. It disappeared below a large bump in the ground. He crouched down, continuing his study. There were remains scattered along the walls of the settlement. Most were crushed into fine pulp. He couldn't tell what most of the other bones were, but he clearly saw equine, bovine, and human skulls amongst the refuse. This place was the monster's dump heap. The Sniper wondered how long this place had been abandoned before he came to it. Maybe it hadn't been so long ago.

He regained his composure. Plans. There were three immediate options that came to mind. Option one was to keep his distance and pick at the wound he'd started with his bushwacka. The jezail wasn't as strong as his rifle, but with enough consecutive shots, he could build up enough speed to cause the monster serious pain. Option two was to ambush the worm and stab it in the side until it stopped leaking. Not elegant by any means, but effective. Option three was a lot like option two, but…

Well. It did no good to worry about option three until options one and two had failed.

"Baah!"

Baah? The Sniper lifted his head. At the edge of the village was an emaciated goat. It continued bleating, wandering the wreckage of the settlement with a slow trot. The Sniper laughed to himself. He was afraid that he'd been spotted. His laughter slowed as a distant rumble began picking up speed. Red earth spewed upwards, an object plowing beneath the desert floor like a submarine missile. He was not alone.

The worm breached the surface, leaping into the air like a bloated whale. It crashed down on the poor goat. The Sniper winced at the sharp snapping that came shortly afterwards. Hopefully, that goat didn't hurt too long. That wasn't his number one concern at the moment. The Sniper lowered his jezail, finding the dark black spot that he'd drilled into the worm. It was infected now, oozing blood and thick puss. Perfect.

The Sniper opened fire. Black blood sprayed into the air. The monster careened backwards, this pain all too familiar to it. It craned its eyeless face towards him, tendrils writhing in sharp aggression. The Sniper adjusted his aim, moving to get back towards the wounded spot. It remembered him. Good. He wanted it to know what he had in store for it.

Bullets pierced the wound in rapid succession. Every expended round was immediately replaced with another, the Sniper clearing the chamber and reloading with one smooth motion. A chunk of flesh tore away, blood bubbling into the earth. Good. Good. If he could only channel such accuracy in every battle. It helped that his target was as large as several buses lined nose to tail, but still. He smirked, teeth flashing in the sunlight.

He moved his hand to his upper right hand pocket to find it empty. Those bullets were gone. He grumbled, digging through the next one for more ammunition. That was when his target zeroed in on him. It blasted up a collapsed stairwell, its teeth bared, tendrils poised to strike. He leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the worm ramming itself directly at him. He kept progressing away, dropping one box of rounds off the side of the rubble. Bugger all.

The heel of his boot met with air. He stumbled, landing on his back a few meters below. Crap. He struggled to catch his breath, the monster watching him as he squirmed away. It lashed out with one tendril, landing only a few inches away from his head. Crikey! He finally got traction, digging his boots into stone. The monster dropped to his level, rolling fat and flesh over his rounds. It was too close for his comfort now. His jezail was useless without more ammo.

Which meant going to option two.

The Sniper tossed the jezail over his back, drawing the bushwacka. His predator lashed forward with a tendril, once again missing the Australian. He struck with a force like lightning, severing the tendril in two. With the one he'd damaged in their last confrontation, he'd halved the worm's potential limbs. He caught the edge of the last dilapidated building, sliding down to the ground. The monster threw itself at him. He side-stepped, gouging the creature in a slash meters long and deep as his blade's length. It screamed in agony.

When the monster began to curl around, the Sniper realized that, with the fantastic attack now finished, he had left himself without an exit. The monster pressed him between the building's wall and the stone ridge. He watched the building flesh bearing down on him. The only way out was either through hard walls or over rubbery skin. The monster loomed overhead, preparing its trajectory. This was his only chance.

He threw himself at the worm. Plunging his knife into its skin, he hauled himself up onto its back. He had just about cleared the gargantuan hurdle when **WHAM!** A dark shriek escaped from his lungs. Dozens of barbs sunk into his back and around his body, plunging into his hide like a snake's bite. Fear exploded in his nerves. He had barely enough sense to hold onto his bushwacka as the monster picked him up with its tendril, like his entire body was nothing more than a rag doll.

The world spun upside down. The Sniper found himself staring down into the ruins and the maw of a ravenous, victorious beast. His hat and glasses hit the ground, his tucker bag landing with a thump next to them. It tightened its squeeze on him. He squinted, the pain excruciating. He had to force himself to keep conscious, focusing on the target beneath him. There were so many bloody teeth below him.

There was only one row of them, though. He found his mind whirling. No beak. No tongue. Its esophagus was dark and smooth, devoid of any additional shredders or pulpers. Okay. This was going to get gross, even in the opinion of a man who routinely threw piss at people. If he could just make it past those teeth, he could do this.

He never made the choice. The monster picked option three for him.

The Sniper curled himself into a ball, careful not to stab himself as he dropped. There was a few seconds of cold freefall, and then **THUNK!** He landed in something hot and moist. His heart raced—he was in once piece, but not safe. There was little room to maneuver. He dug his boots into the throat of the worm, forcing himself upright as much as possible. He couldn't breathe. His head and shoulders sank into warm flesh. God almighty, he was being crushed from the intense pressure inside this beast.

He steeled his grip and stabbed, his senses clouded to anything but heat and moisture.

Blood sprayed in all directions. He kept his mouth shut, his lungs burning up from the lack of fresh air. He pushed forward with everything he had. His heart was slowing. He would have panicked if he had the mind to do so. His mind buzzed like he was going to pass out. He closed his eyes, throwing everything he had into one last push.

His bushwacka met with emptiness. He felt himself tumbling, his knife dragging down through flesh as he fell. He landed with a hard thump on the monster's rubbery hide. There was barely enough sense left in his head to open his eyes. It was raining blood. The monster was shrieking, cries garbled by gurgling gore. He saw a deep black slash hanging over his head, chunks of flesh, organs, and dead bits of lunch splashing around him. He had enough strength to roll off the worm's back, crawling as far as he could go. The creature landed with an awkward crash behind him, screams becoming quieter as the monster bled out.

The Sniper didn't know how long he lay in the red earth, gulping air and trying not to cry like a little girl. He was coated in blood and dirt, his body shaking from exertion. When he finally had the strength to move, he pushed himself onto his elbows. He shivered in the hot sunlight. Standing felt like an impossibility. He got onto his feet only to collapse again. There were several minutes that went by before he tried getting up again, staring long and hard into the gutted maw of his van's slayer.

He thought about his next plan while he worked on getting his strength back. The landscape had changed radically since he'd last gauged his surroundings. Taking a moment to observe the sun and the ridges around him, he was pleased to find he was only about fifteen miles to the west of his team's barracks. He could crawl that, if he had to. He needed energy, but he could do it. There was a can of peaches in his tucker bag, and he could—oh, God.

The Sniper threw up. There wasn't much to it with his stomach empty, but he discharged a good bit of bile. Okay. No eating until he made it to the barracks. New goal. He wiped slime away from his mouth, standing up once more. He stomped over to where his items had fallen. His glasses and tucker bag were in one piece. He dusted his hat off, blowing debris off the crocodile teeth that dotted the band. Those kills seemed like minor holidays compared to this. They made his hat seem empty.

He worked his way to the front of the monster's body. Finding a small tooth on the side of its mouth, the Sniper dug away. He pulled the tooth free with a bloody smack. He tucked it into an empty loop on the hat's belt. He could probably have filled the rest of the hat with the teeth from this beast, but one was enough. No need to brag.

The walk home was draining. He felt his feet dragging. There were several times along the way where he collapsed, his strength ebbing away in gradual waves. Sometimes he crawled. Once he jogged, just when he thought he'd recovered a little of his strength. The sun made its way into its nest long before he did. Still, it was only a matter of time. The skies were littered with stars, and the breeze kept him alert. He had almost come undone by the time he reached the barracks, but by God, he did it.

Only to get punched in the face by a drunk Soldier.

Even then, it was okay. His teammates were happy to see him. The Administrator hadn't killed him outright. He was clean and healthy again. Sure, he got his ass handed to him several times the day after he got back, but he was all right with that. At the end of that day, his stomach was full, his confidants were close at hand, and he could go to bed whenever he felt like it—even if his bed was in half of his bisected van. Sleeping in the garage was much easier than finding comfort in a dark, forbidding cave.

This place really did spoil him.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note:<span>

Write. Like. A. Man. Damn. You. Woman.

Seriously. I have to remind myself that. It helps when you have some…help with characterization. (For an example, go see the first page of "Meet the Director.") I find this to be my new mantra when writing the Sniper: "This is a man who pisses in jars and throws it at people. Write that." You'd be surprised how much that helps.

Didn't stop me from going borderline bromance at the beginning. Laa dee daa!

At any rate, I hope you enjoyed. I think this is the first multiple-chapter story that I've finished since 2006. (Whoo hoo!) I think I have an interesting idea for my next project, but I'm going to have to build a random number generator. Serious business, people. Serious business. But let me know if you'd ever like to play. I could use a good server that isn't completely loaded with Quake sound effects.


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